


It Hadn't Stopped Raining

by Dr_Cat



Series: Like Minded [8]
Category: Knight Rider (1982)
Genre: Gen, Loss, Rain, Repressed Memories
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-05
Updated: 2020-04-05
Packaged: 2021-03-01 16:33:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23500117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dr_Cat/pseuds/Dr_Cat
Summary: "Bonnie left."
Series: Like Minded [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1642711
Comments: 4
Kudos: 14





	It Hadn't Stopped Raining

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own nor did I come up with Knight Rider or the characters mentioned in this story. They were created by Glen A. Larson and are copyrighted to NBC/Universal.

Rain.

It hardly ever rained. It's geographically and atmospherically unsuitable for it to rain here. All odds stood against the singularity.

But, when Bonnie left, it rained and it hadn't stopped raining since.

I listened as it drummed on my hood and roof. I watched the rivets of water stream down my windshield and panels. I sensed the ground around me greedily drinking in the water through the gravel as it pooled around my tires. It was cold. It was dark. And it echoed my disposition.

"I don't understand," I said aloud. There was no one around to hear me and no foreseeable reason to speak, but I did. I was tired of the pounding rain and the rumbling thunder and the howling wind. But most of all, I was tired of the uneasiness, thus, within my schemes bounced an appealing, but drastic solution; transfer the memory.

Another hour passed.

The rain hasn't stopped. I was still parked in the garage's driveway. Still parked where I said goodbye. Parked where the first drop of rain hit my windscreen. Where I became unsettled.

I remembered every moment. How we talked at length about her departure. How we made all the necessary arrangements. How it was a good opportunity for her. How it was a chance for her to expand her knowledge. How I still had Michael and Devon. How April was nice; a little too zealous, but nice. How she'd stay in touch. How she'd only been gone a few hours.

Everything's been taken care of. Nothing bad was going to happen. And yet, somehow, there still was this unexplained, unrelenting disquiet. But, there was also a tantalizing, radical way of escape; transfer the memory.

Another hour passed.

The rain continued and so did my confusion.

"I don't understand," I said again, louder. How could I function properly if my processes were being weighed down by pointless trepidations? How could I fulfill my intended purpose with this obstacle in place? How could I protect Michael? Regardless of my inability to experience the emotion, there was nothing to fear and thus no reason to concern myself with Bonnie's parting. But I was. I was concerned about her leaving.

Michael claimed I'd miss her. At least, that was his argument in favor that she stay, anyway. I stated that was most likely impossible. Though Bonnie was very important to me . . . in essence, the person who helped create me . . . I was also incapable of feelings such as loss, grief or sorrow. So, it would only be a matter of simply adjusting to the change, that's all. I just needed time to acclimate to new dynamics within our group. There was no need for Bonnie to stay and by all accounts, it was impossible for me to be disturbed by her absence.

But, more hours kept passing, the rain kept falling, the unease kept growing and the temptation kept persisting.

I didn't have to store these disconcerting files in my main archives. I could quietly move them into an auxiliary database. I did it with mission files and information records all the time. No one would know, but neither would I. These memories weren't just facts about a suspect or materials for a case. These were experiences; my experiences with Bonnie. Did I even have permission or authorization to do something like this? Maybe, I should ask Michael?

No, he seemed to be rather upset by the matter and had actively chosen not to speak on it for the last few days; right up until she left. I suppose it only makes sense. From my understanding, humans have an adverse reaction to the separation of bonds including that of a working relationship. In theory, Michael would be upset if something happened to me and I was a computer. Maybe it wasn't a good idea to broach the subject with him . . .

Another hour passed.

The rain still hasn't stopped. The sun set long ago. The security lights switched on. And Bonnie left. Still unresolved; still tempted.

This was most distressing.

Another hour passed and . . . My goodness, it's raining. When did that start?

I cued up my recent memories and paused. Several swaths of data had been reallocated under the marker _unspecified_ but, oddly enough, that seemed alright. After all, space was always welcomed in my memory modules. And it didn't look like I'd have to worry about the rain much longer. The atmosphere seemed spent on the task of precipitation.

Well, Michael and I would probably have a case in the morning and I had a new technician to adjust to . . . somehow that was alright too . . . until it wasn't.

Weeks passed and it just wasn't alright.

Things functioned properly and nothing seemed out of order, but something was wrong. I couldn't place what it was, but it gnawed at me constantly. Finally, one night on a case, I was confronted with a possibility when I noticed . . .

"You're awfully quiet tonight."

Michael seemed upset about the recent turn of events in our investigation. I had to admit, I, too, was bothered by the discovery of Amelia's death, but I failed to see why it produced such a sense of sadness in Michael. He had never even met the woman. He had no memory of her outside what Devon and Camela told him.

"Guess I am, pal . . . got things on my mind," he said distractedly. I was puzzled by his melancholy, yes, but I was even more perplexed by my next statement; seeming to stem out of nowhere and yet didn't.

"It must be very difficult to . . . erase people . . . from one's memory banks."

"That's the problem, you don't. You can't," Michael responded thoughtfully. My reasoning schematics immediately latched onto this small piece of information, burning it into my hard drive and welding it to something called _unspecified_.

"If that's true, they become a permeant part of you," I reasoned, grasping a clearer understanding of losing someone.

"The best of them do, buddy. The best of them do just that."

I went silent, realizing my next statement wouldn't have been a statement at all, but a question. If it hadn't of been for my reluctance in knowing the truth I might have asked. Instead, I chose to refocus on our mission and leave the troubling realization behind. Something within my systems didn't sit right with the discussion and, even though I suspected why that was, I really didn't want to know the reason. Nonetheless, the inquiry revisited my awareness once the case was over.

Did I erase someone from my memory banks? Someone significant? Someone permanent?

The answer came back all too quickly and the word _unspecified_ never looked so upsetting in all my existence. I ran through several other files to make sure this instance was only a singularity and not a regular occurrence. To my relief, it was indeed a one-time event. That having been said, I worried who it could be. I came across so many different people in this line of work but all of them were accounted for; all except this _unspecified_ person.

What was I doing? I didn't fret; I couldn't. I analyze facts, I calculate figures and I review information but I did not agonize over past decisions. If the data was moved, it most likely was for good reason. This, along with its unsettling nature, made me decide to pass over the file and restrict it to an alternative data bank; effectively pushing it to the back of my archives.

Mm, that reminds me. I need to focus on compiling this latest case's files down for my records. No more issues with elapsed files . . . until there was. Until I realized how troubling it was to overlook something or someone; to be overlooked. I understood when . . .

"Michael, have you really forgotten me?"

He ran from me. He shot at me. He yelled at me. He was scared of me.

Throughout the whole ordeal of helping Michael regain his memory, I couldn't help but fluctuate between disappointment, frustration, and confusion. But the underlying sensation of it all was hurt. It hurt when I saw the rejection or the surprise or the disbelief in his eyes. Grant it, he was still the same in many ways, but the partnership, the team, the 'us' was gone. It was like starting all over again.

Thankfully, Michael regained his memories, but that left me to wrestle with my own. And, as usual, Michael didn't waste any time turning this mishap into a week's long vacation. That meant there were no missions or distractions this time to excuse me from the daunting task.

So, as we made our way down to the coastline, I pulled up the file _unspecified_.

This was it.

I remember looking at it with unease, opening it with anticipation and reeling as the memories filed back into place. It was a good thing Michael was driving. By the end of it, all I could think was how fitting it was storm clouds were rolling in from the west.

"Ah, don't tell me it's gonna rain," Michael griped as he too noticed the weather change. I was still trying to come to grips with the fact the rain really hadn't stopped at all; not from this perspective. My lack of response seemed to grab my partner's attention.

"Kitt? You alright buddy? We've been listening to non-stop rock-n-roll hits for the past hour and I haven't heard one protest out of you," Michael said with a chuckle. I wanted to reply with the same good humor reflected in his voice, but I couldn't; I just couldn't. A short moment of silence lapsed between us. He frowned.

"Kitt?"

"Yes, Michael," I said simply, trying to hold back any distress in my tone. He picked up on it anyway.

"Come on, pal. Something's wrong. What is it?" he asked. Hmm, I couldn't lie to Michael. One, it went against my programming; two, he was my friend and quite possibly the only one to understand me in this or, at least, I hoped.

"I . . ."

Hesitation filled my processor for a moment as hundreds of explanations flew across my stream of awareness. _I messed up. I can't believe I did this. I wish I could go back and undo this. I chose to forget and then I forgot. I am distraught. I am confused. I am ashamed of myself . . ._

"Is it something I did?" Michael asked anxiously as if he were to blame for my current state. It was too much.

"No! Michael, your memory loss was due to the head injury you suffered. Nothing besides your desire to solve that case, perhaps, could be held against you. I, on the other hand, have no such excuse."

The slight look of confusion on his face had me question the timing of all this, but that seemed to be the reason for the trouble in the first place. I didn't want to spend time sorting through all those difficult sensations back then and I didn't know if I could handle them any better now. I suppose I trusted Michael would have an answer, but if he didn't . . .

"You're gonna have to fill me in, pal. You always tell me you can't forget anything, so, what possibly could have slipped your mind?" he questioned incredulously. I couldn't blame him for his skepticism. It was true, after all. My memory was impeccable. But, in this instance, I chose not to remember. The uneasiness was unbearable.

Then, it began to rain and, really, it hadn't stopped raining since . . .

"Bonnie left."

Michael's face became unreadable. He stared blankly ahead, hands on the steering yoke, mouth in a neutral position. Was he angry? Upset? Indifferent? I couldn't tell and my discomfort grew. Maybe he hadn't understood.

"I forgot Bonnie," I said a little louder than I meant to, a question hanging on the back of that statement; are you there? He silently maneuvered off the road into the graveled shoulder and turned his attention back to my voice modulator; back to me. What he said next didn't answer my questions or absolve me of guilt or solve the problem, but it finally brought some quiet to my unease.

"You weren't the only one, Kitt. You weren't the only one."

As we sat there, we talked. And as we talked, the rain poured down. However, it wasn't dark and cold as before. It was much more light and cleansing. It pooled, streamed, and drummed as I sensed, watched, and listened to Michael; as he did the same for me. It was my real introduction to loss and grief. More importantly, it was my comfort to know I wasn't alone.

The rain hadn't stopped, but, somehow, that was alright and nothing ever changed that.

* * *

_Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted. Matthew 5:4_

**Author's Note:**

> Wrote this story during a difficult time in life . . . I feel it's helping me now, too.


End file.
